I have decided to learn Spanish. It’s an endeavor I have pursued on and off for a good chunk of my teen years and those adult years after 1998 when my college-related beer haze wore off.
In the past my attempts have basically gone something like this: Take a class or two. Study hard. Get an “A”. Skip a semester or two. Start back at the proverbial first square.
(And my old high school friend Nate is rolling his eyes right now because it was my inability to shut up that most often resulted in Mr. Guerrero tossing us out of our high school Spanish class to spend third period staring at each other in the corridor.)
Anyway. Since my fat mouth and I have worn out our welcome with the English speaking world I figured it was high time to work on annoying foreigners. But which ones? I have several years of high school and college German under my belt but unless I wanted to start hanging around white supremacist types it’s a pretty useless language here in Northern California. I tried taking French seriously enough to finish a class once before I realized that it was even more useless than German and the people who speak it make the white supremacists look positively charming. Russian? Now THAT would be useful here in the Sacramento area but it’s been so long since I’ve taken a class that the only phrases I remember are “Good night”, “thank you” and “that is a house” or “that is my house” or “those are my wet leg warmers” because my ability to inflect correctly is hopeless.
Don’t even get me started on the difference between “grandmother” and “head scarf”.
So Spanish it is. Not only is it crazy useful here in California, but it doesn’t involve reading The Turner Diaries or re-memorizing the Cyrillic alphabet.
I started about a month ago by digging out my old college texts and a set of cd’s I had purchased when I was still living in San Jose. Since then I have spent a couple of hours every day brushing up on basic vocabulary, feminine vs. masculine articles and conjugating various verbs. Today I hit the mother lode when I discovered several large stashes of old flash cards I had made while at DeAnza College. Eureka!
I grabbed the stack and settled onto the couch where I spent the better part of the afternoon staring hard at each card before flipping it into my lap and going on to the next one. I had made it through three separate piles before I came upon one that said “hockey”.
Q: There’s a Spanish word for hockey?
A: Well, kind of. El hockey. Being a cognate it’s hardly a truly Spanish word but seeing as how the coldest thing that comes to mind when I think of the Spanish speaking world is the ice in a margarita, los eruditos del espanol can most certainly be forgiven for not having their own original word for a game that involves a bunch of white people armed with sticks ice-skating ferociously after something the size of my fist.
Still, the fact that at some point in my prior education there was a need for me to create a flash card with the Spanish designation for “hockey” begged a question:
Does the Spanish-speaking world really need a word for hockey? Really?
And that question had a sister question: While I sit here and memorize words that I will never use in the event that I find myself lost in Mexico City, what would I prefer to be taught?
Which is how I came to write a list of words and phrases that I wish my Spanish teachers would have taught me but didn’t because even if they had wanted to they probably would have been fired:
How much is the ransom for my husband?
Even for a donkey that’s rather large.
Officer, I have no idea how those drugs got there. Where is your nearest public restroom in which I can reasonably expect not to find small children pilfering the toilet paper and selling it back to me for $5 American?
I’d like a lawyer who speaks English please.
No! I don’t want any fucking chiclet already!
If I blow you will you let me out of jail? (No? What if I blow the donkey?)
You know? I think I have a good start to a pretty useful new phrase book even if I do say so myself.

Alright, here it is… the long awaited invite to the 2009 Steph Matulich Northern California (not that you have to be from Northern California, I mean you can come from anywhere really, even places like Capetown or Bangalore so long as you plunk down five dollars American to play) Invitational Celebrity Death Prognostication Challenge. If you experience difficulty with any part of the process feel free to e-mail me at elkgroverunner at gmail dot com.

1 – Thou shalt pony up*. The price of joining my elite corps of macabre prognosticators is a mere $5; well worth skipping your double-half-caf-nonfat-sugar -free-vanilla-I'm-a-high -maintenance-pain-in-the-ass -latte for one day. You can pay via PayPal (my username is elkgroverunner at gmail dot com). Once you pay you can proceed to the next step.

*In order to be fair to all players, I will not accept lists from someone until they have paid.

2 – Thou shalt be allowed to submit multiple lists. So long as you submit the requisite $5 per list.

3 – Thou shalt create your list. Each player shall create a list of twenty celebs they think are headed for a dirt nap in 2009. Each celebrity's point value will correspond to their position on the list.

For instance, if you write Dick Clark in at 20 and he keels over before the ball drops next year you get twenty points. Your 19 pick will be worth nineteen points, 5 pick is worth 5 points and so on.

4 – Thou shalt submit your list. E-mail your lists to elkgroverunner@gmail.com and be sure to use the subject header "2009 Dead Pool Picks - (PayPal confirmation number)".

5 – Thou shalt have "celebrity" defined. A celebrity is any actor, athlete, politician, journalist, criminal or public personality in whose shrubbery paparazzi may reasonably be expected to hide. Here's the thing: if I can Google a pick's name and find a couple dozen hits I'll accept the submission.

Last year the question of terror suspects came up and I nixed the idea of including them for the sake of keeping things simple. This year we're going to try allowing them and see how it goes.

Therefore, if you think you have a read on the next Abu Musab al-Zarqawi I'll allow the pick with two caveats: the person has to be included on some kind of official watch list and the death has to be confirmed by a minimum of three major media outlets.

6 - Thou shalt join the Yahoo! group. A Yahoo! group exists through which picks are posted, participants engage in discussions and progress is tracked throughout the year. Once you have paid and submitted your list you will be invited to join this group unless you join prior to receiving the invitation. Again, a participant's list will not be posted before their $5 is received. The page is located at:

California Celebrity Death Pool

7 – Thou shalt not join this group and spam participants. If you join this group and proceed to spam participants, tout another dead pool or otherwise make a general nuisance of yourself don't be surprised when you are unceremoniously booted. Any entry fees and lists will be forfeit.

8 – Thou shalt take note of the ridiculous disclaimer because we doth dwell in the most obnoxiously litigious society on Earth. No threatening, stalking, making contact with, murdering or otherwise harassing celebrities. Or, rather, if you do threaten, stalk, make contact with, murder or otherwise harass a celebrity don't get caught. And forget you ever knew me.

The American court system has determined that these types of death pools are completely legit but I'd hate to see our fun get ruined by some kook who thinks John Cusack is transmitting secret messages through their fillings.

Just remember: I'm not above building my personal fortune by reporting a would-be stalker and collecting the reward money.

9 – Thou shalt be treated like an adult. Ask anyone who's participated before, I don't babysit. In the years I've run a death pool I've only ever had to remove one person and that was because the scumbag joined up and began spamming everyone. Other than that I've found the participants in my death pool to be a delightful bunch of sickos and I know you will too.

Happy prognosticating!

No. I really do. Primarily because they have yet to divulge my most embarrassing secrets involving The New Monkees.

…but also because they never pass up the opportunity to serve up humor on a capitalist platter. Like last night. My father sent Christmas gifts to all of us from Afghanistan which arrived in large wooden trunks sometime between Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve. My sister Bethany was subsequently enticed to wrap said gifts and present them to us under the tree. For instance, my daughter Sophie starting to unwrap her gift:

…and my daughter wearing the burqa my father sent to her:

The burqa in the intentionally incongruent packaging, just in case you didn't catch on to my sister's awesome sense of humor:

My future sister-in-law-even-if-she-and-my-brother-don't-realize-it-because-I'm-keeping-her-no-matter-what posing in our new burqas. (Also, her blog is here.)

My husband, looking very much like an extra in Charlie Wilson's War:

My brother posing in my burqa because he's never been one to be left out:

Merry Christmas!

If you were on my Christmas card list you opened your mailbox last week to find a Christmas card accompanied by a photo of my offspring and an insert that made roughly 80% of you want to call the cops and have my children taken away from me once and for all.

For the rest of you - who are by now bowing your heads and thanking the good Lord above that you weren't on my list - here is The Matulich Family Newsletter that I threw into the mix. I'd plead laziness for reprinting the dreadful update here instead of a regular post except that the hundreds of empties on my desk and at my feet tell a different story. Anyway. Here goes:

Well what can I say? 2008 has been most awesome! And fabulous! So super-duper, in fact that I would like to exhaust my supply of superlatives and exclamation points just to convey how this! Was! The! Bestest! Year! Ever! Because that is what one is supposed to do when one sets about to write a "family newsletter"!

Charlie turned 8 this year and entered the 3^rd grade. He has become a real champion speller, which I totally counted on since – duh! – I have a degree in English and everyone knows that grammar and spelling skills are capable of crossing the placental barrier. But you know what I didn't count on? His precocious nature and nascent verbal skills turning him into a font of useless corporate jargon.

Do you have any idea how disconcerting it is to ask your 8-year-old how his day at school was and receive an answer like, "Dude, mom, my teacher was totally impressed that I've made great strides to elaborate in a solution-oriented manner so as to more adequately harness third grade platitudes that aren't necessarily mission critical."

"Huh?"

"Well, that's lunch. Gotta go. Headin' out for a hit-and-run with Mrs. Woods vis-à-vis the 'tetherball situation' on the playground at recess. You know, brainstorm. Develop a new paradigm. Engage in a little out-of-the-box thinking."

Well at least I still have one normal child in Sophie. Or at least I think she's normal At 3 years of age she has yet to develop a strong enough grasp of English to convince me otherwise although I'll conced that she has a worrisome habit of licking windows.

Speaking of Sophie, 2008 has been a banner year for our girl, who has developed quite the fearless streak: she talks readily to strangers (particularly those with candy), jumps off tall objects and will try anything once provided it appears adequately dangerous and will give Kris and I a heart attack.

Side note: my dad has made a habit of pointing at my daughter and saying to me, "See? That's what you get for jumping out of planes and swimming with sharks." Then he giggles maniacally.

Anyway, Sophie has learned how to use a toilet, count to twenty and can even distinguish most colors if the color is "red" and I prompt her sixty-seven times. We plan to spend 2009 working on shapes. Specifically shapes that involve hearts, spades, diamonds and clubs. Also, we're hoping this is the year she finally gets the hang of online poker.

Kris has remained loyal to his years-long endeavor to Stay Indoors And Never Leave The House Again. To this end, my dearly beloved has managed to add roughly 1,600 more hours of programming to our TiVo. Of course, this does not count the episodes of Dr. G that I managed to sneak onto the season pass between Battlestar Galactica and every UFC pay-per-view since the sport was invented.

When my hunka-hunka burnin' love is not watching nearly-naked men make each other bleed or serenading me from the shower he has been filling in for  his boss, who had a double-lung transplant several months ago

(I'm not sure if there is such a thing as a single lung transplant. I just like to throw in the word "double" because I am horribly insecure and I have a habit of trying too hard to sound smart.)

I guess it's only fair to include myself in here.

In my constant quest to disprove the theory that really messed up people do, in fact, seem fairly normal until we open our mouths to speak, I have spent 2008 steadily increasing my Zoloft dosage. This is partly because my offspring resemble howler monkeys and partly because I secretly like it when Kris rolls the pills in peanut butter and then holds my mouth closed until I swallow them.

When I'm not pulling carpool duty or helping kids with homework I can be found working out or in school where – just this semester – I received the opportunity to participate in my first embalming.

So yes, the hands that touched this newsletter have been all over dead people.

…and if that doesn't bother you then you are probably my brother Matthew.

Well, I suppose the Christmas season is here once again which means that I've switched to an all-tequila-all-the-time diet in order to stave off the deletrious effects of all this holiday-related family togetherness.

…and since I'm already several doses in to my self-prescribed treatments I feel it only fair to spare you my drunken misspellings and horrible grammar and ply the interweb with photos of my offspring instead.

Like this photo, taken of my son when he ran into the living room yelling himself blue so that I would take a photo of him. Then he started showing off. Then he executed what I can only assume was supposed to be some suave, ninja-like move before falling flat on his back.

Good times. You know what kiddo? The only thing your prom date's doing to like more than this is are all the photos I took when you were two and couldn't keep your clothes on.

Had enough of my kids? Too bad. Here's a photo of my daughter glaring at me as she digests roughly three times her body weight in turkey after Thanksgiving dinner.

She better hope she has my metabolism lest those eating habits drive her to Jenny Craig. Or bulimia.

Here is a Christmas tree. But it's not my Christmas tree. You want to know how I know? It's a real tree in real dirt with real pine needles that fall off when you shake it. My tree is some polymer job that never turns brown and requires frequenting dusting.

Also, this Christmas tree is now decorated, packaged and on its way to Afghanistan. Since my dad always took us up to Mokelumne Hill to cut down our own tree when I was a kid I felt it only fair that I make sure he has his own fresh tree over there in the land of goat herders and burqas.

It wouldn't be Christmas without tamales, and this year kicked ass because this gringa was invited to help make several dozen of these heavenly pork-filled bodies.

Masa, which - after gobs of lard had been added - was most definitely Not Kosher.

One of the many piles of tamales which - after the pork had been added - was even less kosher. Dude, these tamales are so good that someone is most definitely getting deported.

At 3AM the morning after Thanksgiving day the smoke alarm in my home went off. Having never been one to waste an opportunity to punch my husband in the face, I responded to the brain liquefying WHAWHAWHAWHAWHAWHA by jolting upright and smashing him in the jaw. Then, because I figured I could get away with it under the "she probably wasn't technically awake" clause, I poked him in the eye and gave him a wedgie too.

After I was through injuring the man to whom I am legally and spiritually bound til' death do us part (or at least until one of us scratches up the cash to retain a halfway decent divorce attorney), we both leaped out of bed to rescue our offspring and escape the hellfire that was most certainly engulfing our home as we slept.

Except that it turned out that there was no fire. The spousal unit and I conducted a quick inspection of our vast estate and turned up nothing more incendiary than an old gas can corked with a dirty rag atop a pile of newspaper next to the water heater. We shrugged. He went off to get the ladder. I stayed inside to calm a semi-hysterical toddler and a parakeet with a nervous disorder. Apparently our smoke alarm had gone off just for the hell of it.

Within five minutes everyone was back in bed.

Within ten minutes the alarm was going off again.

Within fifteen minutes we were in bed once again.

Within twenty minutes the alarm was going off again.

Within forty minutes we were in bed once again, but with both eyes open and a ladder at the ready.

Within fifty minutes the alarm was going off again.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

Within an hour we were searching the internet for the number to the White House because it became obvious that somehow, somewhere, the signal between our home and Gitmo had been confused and we were now being subjected to a program of sleep deprivation that had originally been intended for some prisoner named Husain.

This continued throughout the night and by 10AM the next morning both my husband and I were twitching. Our daughter had shut herself into a closet that didn't have a smoke alarm inside. The parakeet was close to cardiac arrest. I decided to call the fire department.

Within ten minutes a fire engine was parked at the end of our driveway and several hunky  very professional young men in uniform were crowded into my kitchen, climbing ladders, inspecting wires and otherwise puzzling out the mystery of our wayward smoke alarms. Also, they were incredibly hot, er, thorough.

Dude! Why hadn't I thought of this before? I wondered as a particularly well-toned member of the department bent over to retrieve a battery he had dropped. He stood up. I tossed another battery onto the floor.

After an hour of checking batteries and poking around the attic space, not a single problem was located.

"These alarms? Sometimes they're just sensitive." One of the guys said. "Give us a call if you have any more problems." He flipped his card onto the counter and tipped us a wink before inviting my daughter to tour the fire engine parked out front. She played with the plastic souvenir helmet they gave her. I drooled. My husband ran inside and began dialing the phone.

"Hello, is this the Victoria's Secret customer service line? Yeah, yeah… my wife and I are experiencing technical difficulties with one of your bras…"